Promise for the Heart
by Insane-nity
Summary: "You must first empty out what's in here," France whispered, his hand moving from the chest to point at the sodden man's head, "Before letting out what's in there."  Happy Valentines, with a darker twist? Rated T for language and minor violence.


The gripping crushing sensation of his mind enveloped his conscious. Memories pounded into his brain as if threatening to crack open his skull. What made matters worse was that the bar was buzzing with laughter and cheers. Dear God did he hate it. No, hate was too dainty, too scrawny. Loathe. That is what he felt like towards the mindless souls around him. How could they, on this…this pathetic excuse for a holiday be so goddamn _happy_? Hell-he betted some of them were as drunk as a donkeys ass just as he was. So it perplexed his swollen mind how even the single ones were enjoying themselves, should they be wanting to stab this dreadful day just as bad as he did? No- that is completely idiotic, humans are humans and that is all. Even in spiteful misery could they be the ones to see the hope. They do not falter they rise. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the refilled glass of beer and took a large gulp. His vision started to swim and the lapse between present and past teetered. A sharp ring slammed into his eardrums, his intoxicated body shuddering as each minute ticked by. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, leaning forward as his breathing started to become rapid. Sweat accumulated at the top of his thick eyebrows and dripped down as he began rocking back and forth. His head lolled to the side for he took another large swing. The satisfying liquor burned down his throat. It saved him for a second from the horrible thoughts that loomed in his chamber like mind. It gave him a slip into present time. A pass. A short-lived break. With his mouth agape and his eyes shooting open, a memory managed to wiggle through and plop itself on his lap. Shit. The only word he could muster as the tears began streaming down his aging face. Never in his life has he felt so old. Never has this fragment of the past been so clearer.

* * *

><p><em>February 14.<em>

"_Scotland, you said they would be here, you promise, why do you keep lying to me?"_

_The man with red-hair and burning green eyes sneered down at him. A fake crooked grin was sketched on Scotland's face as if he found it hilarious that the younger boy was crying. Grabbing a tuft of blond hair, Scotland threw him against the wall, the other gloved hand petting the side of his tear-stained face. _

"_Oh you poor poor darling," he laughed pure mock painted on the elders face, "Why would they ever want to see you? You are nothing to them, hell, I think they hate you."_

_The breath smelled of heavy liquor and something else that he could not hint at. Iron, metal. Blood. His stomach turned as he could feel the bile rise in his throat._

"_No-I, I don't believe you. I don't bloody believe you."_

_Scotland gave another chilling laugh, letting go of the hair, and watching as the younger sibling slipped to the floor in fright. _

"_B-Besides, the real reason they aren't showing up is because they don't like you Scotland."_

_As soon as those words left his mouth did he regret it. That he wanted to take them back. It was a stupid mistake. A searing pain imprinted the side of his face, and he let out a choked cry. Scotland drew back his fist, the Cheshire cat smile gleaming with cruel delight when he looked down at the broken boy. How many times did he beat the crap out of his living-breathing brother? Well-as long as Scotland could remember. Therefore, he continued doing so as if it was a normal routine. Flipping the pocketknife from deep within the pockets of his pants open and bringing it forward, the Scottish man plunged it right into his siblings shoulder. The victim screamed, biting his lower lip as he told himself not to cry, not to show that he was weak. However, he was weak. So that barrier crumpled and be found himself curled up on the ground, sobbing like a newborn child, Scotland hanging over him like the reaper laughing his head off. The blood splattered the ground, just as his spirits burst and fell to the ground all over the place. The shoulder was bleeding heavily, not stopping, even when he gripped it franticly. And what was Scotland doing? Nothing, nothing at all. The blonde-haired boy hit his head hard against the floor, another anguished scream breaking the noise of the drip drip and the crying. He could not take it, why could no one love him. Was he that terrible? Was he some sort of monster? Could God give no mercy and end his damned life? His ribs ached at each breath he drew. Scotland's laugh was beginning to lodge into his brain, so that even Russia's demonic chuckle could show no competition. _

"_Have fun crying; bleed to death for me will ya'?" _

_With that, Scotland left the fragile being to himself. _

_Have fun crying; bleed to death for me will ya'?_

"_Yes, I'll bleed to death. That's good, hm, I'm sorry Scotland I am such a hassle," He mumbled, a sad grin managing to surface. Dying was such a blessing. He could just picture it. The blinding light, the warm welcomes. _

_However, why would he go to heaven? What has he done to prove himself worthy? He was a sin, a sin brought down by God so he could be punished. A sudden panic slammed into him, his grin disappearing. He did not want to go to hell! Oh no-no, no, no. Forcing himself to his knees and bracing him against the wall, a cold determination was pushing the laugh out of his mind. Get out alive, and then maybe die. He started forward, only to whimper as the wound rubbed against the fabric of his ragged clothes. Each small step sent waves of pain. It hurt, it hurt so much. Tears blurred his vision but he kept on going. He could not stop. Maybe fall apart outside, outside where the grass was cool and welcoming. Yes, his new goal. He inched forward, biting his lip harder until he could taste the iron of his blood. So close, so very-_

_The door on the opposite side flew open, and he could feel himself being lifted up off the ground. He immediately went into defense, throwing his arms over his head, not caring about the agony it brought. _

"_Where the hell did you think ye were going?" _

"_I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. I should have died like you said, please, I'm sorry."_

_Scotland wrinkled his nose in disgust, shaking the dirty, disgusting, rotted, repulsive garbage that was supposed to be called his brother. "You were trying to go outside, weren't you?" He demanded, "WELL?"_

_The trash could not lie. He nodded meekly, sniffling as he stared into the eyes of the devil. Scotland gave what was assumed a growl before chuckling. _

"_You were going to the river…weren't you?"_

_Another nod, but this was a lie. Could he just not .Peace? _

_Scotland threw him into a bridal style and kicked open the door that the brother was so desperate to get. For a moment, the blond-haired person thought of burying his head into the alcoholic-scented clothes. To feel a sort of warmth that he longed for. Impossible, how dare he think of such vile thoughts. It occurred to him how thick Scotland's hatred for him was: any sort of compassion would set the scot on fire. Therefore, he stared blankly ahead, trying to regulate his breathing, the world spinning at each step. Scotland marched down the grassy hill, to where a small river lazily sat. Setting the sibling down he started yelling, "Your shirt, off, now." _

_Oh how the abused one wanted to sleep on the bank. To let his life pass on by next to the easygoing river. To feel the cold grass tickle the scars that littered his body. To gaze at the stars like any other child his age would do. _

"_Shirt, off, come on."_

_He silently obeyed taking his shirt off painfully, a piece of fabric still plastered on his healing cut, yellow puss oozing down. He could tell that the infection was going to be horrendous. _

_Death. Come faster. _

_Scars and cuts that were still healing (or at least trying to) filled his back. Whippings, bottle slashes, fist bruises. It was like a never-ending nightmare, only it has just begun. Scotland grabbed the boy's hand and dragged him down. Now on the grass where he most wanted to be, he could feel the urge to flop down in exhaustion, but Scotland had other ideas._

_He always had other ideas, ever since he laid eyes on the lad. Ever since Ireland and Wales brought him into the strange Scottish lands. _

"_You scared of water?"_

_The blond-haired boy looked at him in confusion. What did he mean, scared of water, who is ever scared of water? The thought came a bit too soon. Scotland grabbed the back of the siblings head, pulling on the strands of hair like a puppet. Then, the older brother did the unthinkable. He dunked the boy's head into the freezing water, keeping it there for what seemed like ages. The freezing liquid felt like tiny needles stabbing into his soft baby like skin. The murky substance clogged all of his senses, his lungs desperate for air. Drowning. The only form of valid thought that sprouted in his head. God, now Scotland was trying to drown him. _

_He could feel his head bursting up from the prison like waters, and he started gulping as much oxygen as he could. He did not hear the unmistakable snicker before his head smashed into the river again. And again. And again. Finally, his worn body was thrown to the side, the pure relief of air and land at his tips again. He was flailing, arms grasping his wound, his heart trying to function properly now that he could breathe. Scotland, sitting back, cocked his head to the side and grinning as if he had won the lottery for the millionth time. _

_He tried not to cry. What kind of person would he be? _

_He began sobbing. The tears ran down his face, possibly freezing midway. Wet. Cold. In pain. Love, the only thing that he most desperately wanted. The only thing he was thriving for. The only way he could truly be happy was to be loved. To fill all the holes that was punctured into his heart. From this moment on it would be a repeated game, everyday from this moment forth Scotland would try to drown him. He knew it, and he saw it coming. Maybe that was his sole purpose in this world. To be a mat where Scotland could rub his filth all over. _

_[Dammit, Scotland. Please, accept me]_

_The last words he heard before he slipped into unconsciousness were from his brother and of five._

"_Happy valentines piece of shit."_

* * *

><p>"Sir-you need to leave."<p>

He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the bartender. Hell, he will leave when he wants to. Besides, he was a nation after all wasn't he? Wasn't he….

His stomach knotted, possibly from the alcohol he consumed at a rapid pace. Possibly, from the mere thought that, he could be human and that his immortality was just a lie. He groaned inwardly.

"Sir-you really need to leave."

He could not speak, each time he opened his mouth to snap back a rude reply he was overcome with a feeling of nausea. His body felt like lead, so no matter what this fellow might do to make him move it would not work.

"I'm going to call the police."

[Go ahead yooou pr-prIck. Li'e .I'll broodry caaaare. Son ov a' brritch. G-gooo pIssl yoou'r moOm]

His head, it hurt, aggravated him. Think straight, couldn't he think straight? Speaking, what was wrong with his tongue, his jaw? Couldn't his vocal cords snap with the rhythm of his brain, communicate crisp clean words? Beer, more beer. Drink himself away that is what he will do. The hangover would be terrible yes, but in his mind, it was worth it. It was as if it helped close the gates to his past concealing them. Then on the following day after the immense headache and vomit, everything would slide back in place. The mask he always bore would attach itself on his face. "Gentlemen" clothing would seal the scars. His façade would rise up in replace of the weak undesirable rat he was. Yes, the plan sounded marvelous. It was just the annoying bartender that was in the way of his genius arrangement.

"I knew I would find you here."

Cross that out. Make it an annoying F_renchmen _that was in his way.

"Sod off." He remarked curtly, not making eye contact with the brilliant blue-eyed man that sat in the dusty barstool next to him. Brilliant. He was really loosing it.

"Mon cher, it's the day of l'amour and you are here. Why's that?" France questioned, leaning forward so his breath would trickle down the other man's neck.

"Yo' broddy fro'g, go awar'y,"

France laughed his signature _Oh honhonhon _making the other nation wince as another dreadful memory tried surfacing. Couldn't anyone leave him in peace? Even that French idiot must have seen the uneasiness. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance, and he casted a drunk-death glare over in France's direction. France paid no head, cocking his head to the side, flashing a dangerously warm smile, and slipping his arm around the wheat-haired man's shoulders. This caused a ripple in the drunk-man's body, a shudder that passed through all of his veins and ended up at his heart. He lurched forward, trying not to scream.

[Be strong you idiot]

"Que Dieu vous pardonne."

[Go away France. Please, you are being a bloody moron frog]

"S'il vous plait ne pas y aller."

[Please]

He could not stop it though. The action, the movement. It all happened before, this exact day. His head turned to France, a look of complete despair overthrew the scornful features. The Frenchman let out a sigh and clasped his hand over the other man's chest without much of a protest. His worried blue eyes locked with the emerald green ones.

"You must first empty out what's in here," France whispered, his hand moving from the chest to point at the sodden man's head, "Before letting out what's in there." He nodded and pulled away from the touch, staring down at the empty glass. He shut his eyes, the images swooping over him like rapid tides, and let his heart leak without a moment's hesitation.

* * *

><p><em>February 14<em>

"_Hey, HEY."_

_He looked up, half annoyed that he could not finish planting and half relieved that he could take a small break. A smile tugged at his lips when he saw the blue-eyed boy with long blond-hair and a satire for clothes come bounding up to him. It was years since the Roman Empire saved him from Scotland, much to a worthless fight that the roman's had to battle. And to be honest, he was insanely happy once the border between the evil country and the empire passed. For weeks he did not talk, bathe, or want to see anyone other than Rome. Even the sweet little Italian that he was introduced to could not make him budge from the loneliness and attachment. _ _And then that French-boy came. _ _At first, he had cowered away, afraid that he would inflict damage on his body. However, slowly the French nation approached, his body smelling of rose petals in early morning dew. His hand reclined forward, almost mechanically as if he was too afraid that the other being might attack._

"_I don't bite."_

_He stared down at the hand, furrowing his eyebrows curiously, unsure of what to do. Never has he seen this gesture, so the first thought to do with it was poke it. _ _The other boy laughed, shaking his head, as he said, "No silly, you shake it."_

"_Shake it?"_

"_Oh good, you can talk."_

_He winced; the streak of not making communication shot right in the knee._

"_Here, stick your hand out." The boy instructed, leaning back on the balls of his feet._ _He did as he was told, biting his tongue in nervousness. Besides, he did not know what this boy would do. Slap it. _ _However, he did not slap it. Instead, he grabbed his hand and did a semi-hard shake._ "_There now we are acquainted," the Frenchman affirmed, wrapping his arm around the other boy's shoulder. "My name is France, yours?" The emerald-eyed boy pulled away, his gaze trying to fixate on another thing other than the gorgeous body of France. His face turned deep red as he spluttered,_ "_None of your concern."_

* * *

><p>"<em>Hey," He called back, waving his hand high in the air. France was breathing quite heavily, his golden locks brushing against his redden face. A lopsided grin plastered on his face as he excitedly said, "Lake-swim-go-now."<em>

_It seemed as if the other boy's heart stopped beating. His whole body went cold and his eyes peeled wide in fear. No, the lake was a bad idea, bad idea in the boy's mind. Nevertheless, he did not want to let his friend down, he did not want to see the look of disappointment that would be embedded in his companions eyes. Therefore, he came up with an excuse that seemed more lousy than truthful._

"_I have to plant these crops today, before the sun goes down."_

"_Why?"_

"_Um," He paused for a second, his breath getting caught in his throat. Dammit, he could not lie, not to France. Therefore, he muttered few words under his breath, hoping that the sense of he-does-not-want-to-go would register in France's head._

"_I couldn't hear you," the frenchy clicked, leaning forward so his nose touched the other boy's nose and he tapped his earlobe. The wheat-haired blushed, looking away quickly mumbling in his thick British-like accent, "I said I just can't."_

_France gave an exaggerated look, flipping his blonde hair as if in annoyance, saying, "God, out of all people."_ _He twitched a little, saying roughly, "What do you mean?"_

"_Nothing."_ _He gave a play punch, square into France's shoulder. Earning an ow, he burst out in a fit of laughing. France gave his kicked puppy dogface before grabbing the other boy's waist and resting his chin on the shoulders. "You didn't have to punch me that could have messed up my beautiful figure." The boy with emerald eyes snorted, snuggling into France's chest as a sign of friendship before saying lightly, "Was that a hint of sarcasm?" _

_France gave a chuckle that made the other boy's heart skip a beat. _ "_You must think I'm devilishly handsome non?" France inquired, turning the boy's head with his finger so they could both look at each other in the eye. The other boy blushed heavily, wanting desperately to stay in that position, but pulled away instead. _ "_Would you like me to lie?" _

"_Oh no, monsieur. Please, I'm just dying to hear."_

"_I think you are an arrogant bastard," He began, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as France's face flushed, "But, a…a lovely arrogant bastard." He turned his head away, feeling incredibly stupid with his confession. It was the first time in his life when he felt remotely happy with another human being. France was like his guiding light in a tunnel that was so dark and filled with hate. A sudden voice that aroused him from a deep icy slumber that in his subconscious, knew he could never awake but did. France smiled and leaned in kissing the boy's cheek tenderly. _

"_Well, I think that even with your terrible eyebrows, you are quite sexy."_

"_France."_

"_Oh honhonhonhon. Now, what about the lake oui?" _ _He paused at this, looking down at his bare- feet with a look of resentment. How could he finally face his phobia of water, how could he tell France he was mortified by water? Better yet, how could he show France the scars that would never heal, and the knife mark that was inflicted on his shoulder? An idea popped into his head and he looked up at that cute-arrogant-bastard with cunning green eyes. _ "_We don't have to undress, do we?"_ _France looked a bit disappointed, "No, unless you want to."_

"_I'd rather not."_

_-five hour time skip-_

"_France, you touch my arse one more time…"_

"_Accusing me again, I told you it was the fish!"_

"_Fish don't have fingers to grab people's arses." _

"_Liar."_

_He quickly moved to the side as another splash tried hitting his slightly wet body. He was on top of a large rock that jutted out of the water, its top smooth and flat. He found this the ideal spot to be, since it would not make it look like he was afraid of the liquid substance, but more of he does not want to swim. However, as soon as he started climbing, France had snuck up and splash some of the cool water against the other boys back, making him scream and climb up faster. Taking this as more of a joke, France took of his shirt (making the other boy gawk at the ripples of muscle) and started climbing up the rock too. "My rock," the emerald eyes flashed with triumph as he tried harmlessly steeping on France's fingers. France slipped off and landed on his bum on the compacted ground._

_So here, they were now, each trying to get the rock as theirs. A little feeble war, as France had said._ _The 'king' of the rock leaned in, giving out the taunt of, "You splash like a girl, and look like a bloody frog."_ _France narrowed his eyes and did the look of yeah-right-bitch. The Frenchman shot out of the water and started climbing the rock as fast as he could. Giving a little shriek 'the king' backed up a bit, allowing France's confidence to boast tremendously and himself to give the one final push and land on the rocks top. _

"_Hello."_

"_Dammit," it was all 'the king' could do as France got up to his feet. He then started proceeding over to where he was._

"_France, what are you doing," he cried when the strong hands clasped on his shoulders. "S-Stop please." _ _France must have not heard the urgency in that voice must have not recognized the panic. _ "_Its part of the game, I'm up so you have to go down."_

_Down. Down into the murky cold water. The laughing. The shards of ice. Glass. The beatings and bruises. France's face morphed into Scotland's, the playful smile turning sinister. He lost it. He began crying, kicking. _ "_No, dear God I'm sorry. PLEASE DON'T KILL ME," he shrieked, tears falling down his eyes like a rainstorm. He did not notice how close he was to the edge, or how France was yelling for him to stop. He placed his hands on his ears, screaming, shaking his head. The images. The noises. The bedpost where he was tied every evening when one of those whores decided not to show up. It was all piled up like food on a silver platter. So high and tall, that it started rocking back and forth. Finally, it just collapsed. Suffocating. Killing him slowly inside. Eating at his very heart._ "_STOP IT I'M SORRY."_

_He slipped. _

_And he fell._

_And everything was swallowed by darkness. _

_Minutes felt like days, and all he could see was eternal blackness. No light, no sound. Just his heart beat getting slower and slower. He knew he could not swim, so why try. His lungs burned for air, and he tried to breath, to drown faster. Something stopped him._

_France._

_Soon enough he was flopped on the ground, gasping for breath, trying to make sense of everything. Who was he? Where was he? And what the hell happened? _ _France was leaning over him in one of those awkward positions, shaking the soaked body with a face constricted with both worry and doubt. "Wake up, wake up," he pleaded, seeing how the breathing was irregular and that he was slipping in and out of conscious. _ "_Nations can't die. You cannot die. I'm sorry, so please wake up." _ _No reaction. France shook his head, [this cannot be happening]. He grabbed the shirt and lifted it up, slipping the wet garment off the unconscious and barely breathing body. France gave a gasp, nausea and dizziness slapping his stomach silly as he tried not to vomit._

_Cuts, big ones small ones all over his torso. His skin was a purplish-blue colour that wrinkled near his neck. Ribs prodded out from his skin and there was what looked to be large dents on the sides. His veins could be seen and each time his chest would occasionally rise, they would pop out before falling back in place. Nevertheless, most eye-catching of all was this cut on his shoulder. A deep cut to the looks of it. Dried up yellow puss and blood clotted the wound almost entirely. A whitish substance around the perimeter enclosed the whole deal. It was disgusting. Horrifying. And France just could not live with himself to see his companion like this. He leaned forward, placing his lips tenderly on the other boy's mouth, lifting his head up with one of his hands. _ "_You will never be alone," he whispered, pulling his head away, "I promise."_

_Nevertheless, the drowning, lost, hopeless boy could not hear that. _ _He could not hear the love and affection that France poured into those words._ _He never will._ _Moreover, when he woke up in the chamber of his room, France and Rome at his side, he became someone else. He became a person not looking for love but for hate. When he fell, a silent oath was made._

_[I will kill whoever pushed me._

_I will slaughter those who cared._

_Happy Valentines, pieces of shit]_

* * *

><p>"I pushed you."<p>

"I know."

"And you tried to kill me."

"I know."

France became silent, staring at the man who seemed so engrossed by the beer glass.

"Frog."

"Hm."

"Do you know what today is…." France sighed, casting the other man a sad expression. "Oui." The man gave a sour-depressed look, turning fully around to the Frenchman, resting his head on his hands. "I hate this bloody day," he mumbled, not daring to make eye contact anymore. His heart constricted, and he really did feel like slipping away. Maybe he could use those medication pills and-

France's lips crashed into the man that was lost in his dreary thoughts. He grabbed that poor man's waist and dragged him until both their chest were against each other's. He would not let go. He was tired of letting go. This man, this man that Rome brought to him was his and no ones going to take him away again. The boy who cried and nearly drowned would always be his. The broken abused boy that could not swim was his. He promised, and France has never broken that promise. Even through all the wars that plagued and spoiled them both, he would always love him. Today was February 14.

Today the man that always hated this day loved it so much. Today he embraced France and kissed him with all of the feelings he could muster. Heartache, loss, promise, hope, fear, love. Their tongues fought for dominance as the passion that was long ago buried deep within ignited again. All the worries in their heads, all the doubt and self-conflict vanished. They were two halves that could only make a whole, two boys who grew up fighting were the only ones to fall in love with each other. And they liked it that way. France pulled the other man deeper into the fire of their amour until they both could not breathe. And when they both pulled away, the wheat-haired man slumped over in exhaustion, burying his head into France's clothes. His eyelids dropped the tears and memories finally becoming so heavy on him, he had to slip. And he did slip. He slipped in his lovers arms, in the love that he was looking for his whole entire life. Not even America filled that gap completely. The Frenchman ran his fingers through the hair that reminded him of the crops they would plant when they were such young kids. He leaned forward, whispering, "I kept my promise." There was no reply, for the intoxicated man had dove into unconsciousness. France smiled, hugging the most beautiful being he had ever seen. Moreover, even though that man would forget this day, forget when France came in, forget the kiss and the love that they both greatly needed to show; it did not bother the cute-arrogant-bastard. The only thing that mattered was looking down at the face with the caterpillar eyebrows, and seeing the content smile equivalent to an angel.

"Happy Valentines England."

* * *

><p><strong>Happy Valentines!<strong>

**Nothing is historically accurate at all, so please bare with the horribly incorrectness. **

**I used "he" for the entire story because I wanted it to be more focused on the mental conflict then "oh look, it's england, he needs to be a certain way and blah blah blah" though I'm pretty sure you had already figured out it was about him by the end of the first flashback. I also made his relationship with Scotland darker, sorry folks, its just the way I roll.**

**And for USUK fans, well, I hope you enjoyed this FrUk story anyways~**


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